Big ears make for big waste. A big waste of the human form, a skin balloon with a heartbeat.
He flicked through the perfects on his laptops. Perfect ears, small crescents against the heads of these giants. These visions of ...
Alarm..WAKE UP WAKE UP! An alarm, now? Of course. Was there ever a fire that started before midnight? Or after at sunrise. He poured himself off of his cot. Red lights like enemy eyes, screaming, 'Do your job'!
He went to his post. Ladder 4, his dispatcher, through a tear of static, his brothers repeating her words in bold faced urgency, 'Structure fire, 679 Nadir Street.' He closed his eyes, and his left leg dangled in the wind of the city streets.
'Up fourth floor, right...' a captain shouted. A shrewd little brownstone belching smoke, spitting fire.
He waited for word, and then bolted up the fire escape, as his brothers took to the hoses.
'Wake Up!' he shook his head, blinded by hell smoke. Black smoke. Death smoke. He grabbed an arm, strong like his, and he looked. Perfect ears. This man had perfect ears.
'Come on,' he screamed. A roar. A volcanic heat tore like a tidal wave out of the dying building.
'Get out!' the ladder began to sway.
He took his helmet off, and went to write a report. As he coughed up a belly of smoke, all he could think to write was 'perfect ears, perfect ears, perfect ears...'
